“They check his place?”
“Affirmative. It appears some of his clothes may be missing, and a few personal items, but there’s no sign of struggle, foul play, or, for that matter, evidence that he was planning a long trip.”
“A month ago, Felicity Kade made a trip to Jamaica. Just what did she and Carter Bissel have to talk about, I wonder?”
“Maybe she was looking to recruit him, too.”
“Or maybe she was looking for another goat. I think we should take another look at the crime scene.”
Her desk ‘link beeped, and she tossed the ceiling tile aside. “Dallas.”
Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. See the officer at 24 West Eighteenth Street. Unattended death. Single victim, female. Identification verified as McCoy, Chloe.
“Acknowledged. Responding. Dallas, out.”
Chapter 10
She’d gone with pills, and had dressed in a frothy pink nightgown, done her face and hair carefully, then draped herself on the bed among a mountain of pretty pillows and a stuffed purple bear.
She smelled of something very young, very floral, and might have been mistaken for sleeping if her eyes hadn’t been wide and staring, and already clouded with death.
The note lay on the bed beside her, just at her fingertips, with a single line written in dramatic, loopy script on cheap, reconstituted pink paper.
There is no light, there is no life without him.
The empty pill bottle sat on the nightstand, beside a glass of tepid water and a single pink rosebud, shed of all thorns.
Eve studied the room and decided the rose fit with the frilly pink-and-white curtains, the framed posters of fantasy landscapes and meadows. The room was tidy, if overly female, but for a scatter of used tissues lying like snow over the floor by the bed, the remains of a melted pint of Sinful Chocolate frozen dessert, and a half bottle of white wine.
“What does it look like?” Eve asked Peabody.
“It looks like she had herself a major pity party. Wine and ice cream for comfort, lots of tears. Probably used the wine to help herself gear up for the pills. She was young, stupid, and theatrical. The combo led her to self-termination over a sleazeball.”
“Yeah, that’s what it looks like. Where’d she get the pills?”
With a sealed hand, Peabody picked up the bottle to examine the unmarked green plastic. “It’s not a prescription bottle. Black market.”
“She strike you as the type who’d have black market connections?”
“No.” And the question had Peabody frowning, studying scene and body more closely. “No, but you get fringe dealers working colleges and art circles. She moved in both.”
“True enough, true enough. Could be. She’d have had to move fast, but from our brief meeting earlier, I’d peg her as the impulsive type. Still…”
Eve walked around the room, into the little bath, out into the stingy living area with its mini kitchen. There were lots of knickknacks, more art reproductions, romantic themes, on the walls. There were no dishes in the little bowl of the sink, no articles of clothing tossed around. No tissues scattered anywhere but the bedroom.
And, she noted, running a sealed finger over a table, not a speck of dust.
“Place is really clean. Funny that somebody so mired in grief they’d self-terminate would tidy up like this.”
“Could’ve always been tidy.”
“Could’ve been,” Eve agreed.
“Or she might’ve buffed the place up, just the way she buffed herself up before she did it. One of my great-aunts is obsessed about making the bed as soon as she’s out of it every morning, because if she keels over and dies, she doesn’t want anybody thinking she’s a careless housekeeper. Some people are weird that way.”
“Okay, so she gets the pills, buys herself a pink rosebud. Then she comes home, cleans the house, spruces herself up. Sits on the bed crying, eating ice cream, drinking wine. Writes the note, then pops the pills, lies down and dies. Could’ve gone down just that way.”
Peabody puffed air into her cheeks. “But you don’t think so, and I feel like I’m missing something really obvious.”
“The only thing obvious is a twenty-one-year-old girl’s dead. And from first look, it appears to be a straight, grief-induced self-termination.”
“Just like Bissel and Kade appeared to be a straight, passion-motivated double homicide.”
“Well now, Peabody.” Eve hooked her thumbs in her front pockets. “You don’t say?”
“Okay, I’m picking up the trail, but if this, like the double homicide, is an HSO or terrorist hit, what’s the motive?”
“She knew Bissel. She was his lover.”
“Yeah, but she was a kid, a toss-away. If she knew anything relevant to Bissel’s work, or the Code Red, anything hot, I’ll eat my shiny new detective’s badge.”
“I tend to agree, but maybe someone else didn’t. Or maybe it was just housecleaning. The fact is that there’s a connection between her and Bissel, and because there is we’re not treating this like a straight self-termination. We’ll start with the body, then I want this place picked apart. What’s the name of the woman who found her?”
“Deena Hornbock, across-the-hall neighbor.”
“Do a run. I want to know everything about her before I interview her. Have the uniform keep her in her apartment and under control.”
“Check.”
“Contact Crime Scene, and Morris. I want Morris personally on her. And I want CSU to sweep this place down to the last molecule.”
Peabody paused at the door. “You really don’t think she killed herself.”
“If she did, I’ll eat my no-longer-shiny lieutenant’s badge. Let’s get to work.”
There were no signs of struggle, no evidence of insult or injury to the body that would indicate force. Eve hadn’t expected any. She’d died shortly after three A.M. Painlessly, quietly. Uselessly, Eve thought.
Her ‘links were in working order, though they’d been shut down shortly after midnight. Reactivating, Eve found her last transmission was an incoming from Deena across the hall at twenty-one hundred and involved a great deal of weeping and sympathy.
I’m coming over, Deena had said. You shouldn’t be alone at a time like this.
Much tearful gratitude, then the transmission ended.
But the data unit wouldn’t boot. Infected, she’d bet the bank on it. What would a silly art student have on a data unit that could worry the HSO, or techno-terrorists?
When she’d done all she could with the body and the bedroom, she moved into the living area where Peabody worked with the sweepers. “They’re bagging her for transport. Suspicious death. Give me Deena Hornbock.”
“Student, single, twenty-one. A theater major, with a eye toward set design. She’s got considerable work on her résumé. Lived at this location for a year. Prior to that did the dorm thing at Soho Theatrical Studies. Prior to that, lived with mother and stepfather in St. Paul. One younger sib, brother. No criminal except a suspended for recreational Zoner when she was eighteen. Pays the rent on time. I contacted the landlord.”
“Good.”
“McCoy’s also up to date on rent, though she tended to pay just before the late fee would kick in. She paid up yesterday, an e-transfer at sixteen thirty-three.”
“Yeah? Really tidy to pay the month’s rent when you’re planning to kill yourself. Let’s see what her pal has to say.”
Deena Hornbock was shaken but composed as she sat in a plush red chair and sipped continuously from a bottle of water. She was a thin, striking black woman with a small tattoo of a pair of red wings at her left temple.
“Ms. Hornbock, I’m Lieutenant Dallas, and this is Detective Peabody. We need to ask you some questions.”
“I know. I’m really going to try to help. I didn’t know what to do. I just didn’t know, so I ran out and started yelling for somebody to call the police. Somebody did, I guess. I just sat down, right out in the hall until Officer Nalley came.”